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Show of Utah's most sensitive areas in its southern red rock country. DeChristopher showed up initially just to protest, but he ended up walking into the auction, was handed paddle number 70 and started bidding. He drove up the price of numerous parcels and won 14 of them himself. When it became clear he had neither the intent nor the means to pay for the land he won, the auction was canceled. DeChristopher's faulty bidding delayed the auction long enough for the Obama administration to come into office and determine the sale was actually bogus, so none of the parcels up for sale that day were developed. As for DeChristopher, his trial was delayed nine times before he was convicted of two felony charges that netted him a two-year prison sentence. The final six months of his sentence were to be spent in a Salt Lake City halfway house, and Ken Sanders provided DeChristopher with employment. After the auction, DeChristopher was an instant climate activism superstar. He co-founded Salt Lake City-based activism organization Peaceful Uprising and spoke at numerous rallies. DeChristopher brought national attention to Salt Lake City during his trial. After disrupting the auction, he was the most talked-about activist in the country. The attention wasn't unjustified. During his time in the spotlight, DeChristopher showcased his activism abilities went far beyond raising a paddle at an auction. "He was meant to do this, meant to be an activist," says George Gage, whose "Bidder 70" documentary chronicled DeChristopher's trial. "He had that charisma to build a following, and that's rare to find." Beth Gage, George's wife and filmmaking partner, agreed that DeChristopher was meant to lead. "He went from being a college student to an activist leader, pretty much overnight," Beth Gage adds. DeChristopher's charisma — particularly his public speaking ability — made him the face of Utah activism, especially Peaceful Uprising. When DeChristopher was sentenced in 2011, it left a void both in the Utah activism community and especially in Peaceful Uprising. "It was a big hole," says Julianne Waters, one of Peaceful Uprising's co-founders. "We thought we were ready, and we pretty much were, but we were devastated." In prison, it was made clear DeChristopher was to remain silent. In March 2012, he sent an email to Dylan Schneider, a friend and fellow Peaceful Uprising member at the time, saying he wanted to refuse funds from a corporate donor who was outsourcing and laying off workers. After an unidentified congressman got wind of the email, DeChristopher was thrown into an isolation chamber. From this point on, it was clear DeChristopher would remain quiet for the rest of his sentence. Peaceful Uprising felt it was its responsibility to fill the silence, and its members, as well as DeChristopher, realized this before he was sentenced. "We knew he had to be gone, that we needed to keep going," says Peaceful Uprising director Henia Belalia. "We need a movement with lots of leaders, not just a bunch of people wanting to follow one guy." A former Greenpeace employee, Belalia is among the most experienced activists in Peaceful Uprising's ranks, and she discusses DeChristopher with more practicality than most. She's not impervious to the blows the organization was dealt while DeChristopher has been in prison. Not only did Peaceful Uprising lose its poster child, but it also lost $90,000 in funds in January 2012, and it had to roll with the punches. The group hasn't been stagnant in DeChristopher's absence, though. Peaceful Uprising has established activism training classes, a community-based activism platform and has participated in numerous state climate rallies, most recently protests at the state Capitol regarding air quality. Ever so slowly, Peaceful Uprising has separated itself from the image of being the "Tim DeChristopher organization," but will that continue when he finishes his sentence? T he Peaceful Uprising website features DeChristopher quite prominently. He has his own page on the website, there was a blog covering his trial, and a detailed biography is also included. During the organization's first couple years, the goings-on of DeChristopher's trial consumed much of the group's efforts. Belalia recognizes the organization was identified by its association with DeChristopher, and not the other way around. Separating that connection — or even shifting the order of it — wasn't a priority of Peaceful Uprising. "Our focus is not on branding, but on how to empower other individuals," Belalia says. When DeChristopher is released on April 21, Peaceful Uprising might have to continue to empower individuals without a great deal of his help. Friends say he has applied to the Harvard Divinity School in hopes of becoming a minister in the First Unitarian Church, a progressive and humanitarian-based religious sect. Whether he will be involved in the day-to-day operations of Peaceful Uprising is unknown, leaving the organization wondering how it will utilize him and to what degree to embrace his image and impact on its early years. DeChristopher's image will be embraced heavily in the first 24 hours of his release. Peaceful Uprising will hold the first national screening of "Bidder 70" on April 22, the day after DeChristopher is released and, ironically, Earth Day. Beyond April 22, though, his role with the organization isn't certain. Nevertheless, Belalia and others in Peaceful Uprising know he won't vanish for good. "Peace Up is both an organization and a community," Belalia says. "Even if Tim isn't a part of our day-to-day operations, he will always be a part of the community ... He's a close friend. I know that if we ever need his voice, he will be there for us." sk anyone who knows DeChristopher, and their respect for him was galvanized on the Frank E. Moss U.S. Courthouse steps after he was convicted. Following the trial, DeChristopher gave an impromptu speech urging others to commit acts of civil disobedience that left supporters cheering in unison with fists raised in the air. Even U.S. District Judge Dee Benson mentioned the speech in DeChristopher's sentencing. As a documentary filmmaker, George Gage isn't often overcome by emotion, but that moment was different. "I was following Tim after the speech and I was crying so hard I couldn't see through the viewfinder," Gage says. "Since I wasn't able to do my job, I dropped the camera and went up and hugged him." DeChristopher became a spontaneous activist widely respected for his actions. He built the kind of clout in a day that many require years to develop, but he was effectively silenced for two years in federal court. Right now, the closest thing to activism he can do is sell Ken Sanders customers a copy of The Monkey Wrench Gang. But on April 21, DeChristopher will only have probation to adhere to. Will he eventually return to the headline-producing methods of activism? Or, like so many other mythical figures, will Tim DeChristopher simply remain the stuff of legends? m A wasatchmagazine 5 |
